


The Ragged Edge Drabbles

by zephyrial



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Arson, Drabbles, Gen, Vilinte, also generally major character death is only temporary in this particular guild, because she's the arsonist and desrves her own warning, prompts, written for myself and my guildmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyrial/pseuds/zephyrial
Summary: The Ragged Edge is a guild full of all sorts of strange personalities but their one common trait is the will to stand against the Dark.These are random drabbles about the members of this eclectic mix of people





	1. Death Day Blues

**Author's Note:**

> so this guild has been near and dear to my heart for many years and I thought maybe other people might enjoy reading about them. This is one of the works adapted to an urban fantasy setting. It should be known that several members of The Ragged are dead, undead, or somewhere on that spectrum-Eckoe is one of them.

They had been planning this celebration for months and, at the time, it had seemed a fun concept, but in practice it was turning out to be a lot less so than anticipated. Sure, it was something to be celebrated in theory, but Vil was there that day. She remembers. People look at her and they see a happy, fun-loving woman who takes very little as seriously as she probably should. She doesn’t have to work hard to maintain that sort of reputation, generally she really is like that, but then there are those times, times when her friends are hurt or in danger, when she loses people to the life. Those times are a struggle, even to someone as forcefully positive as her. So the fact that one of her two best friends had died a year before on this day is rough, to say the least. The fact that he didn’t stay that way for very long doesn’t matter.

Up until this point she had been excited for this party, but now that the day was finally here all she could think about was the look in Eckoe’s eyes as it happened. She remembered the startling quiet of it all, because they had been in the midst of battle and they had looked like a bunch of Renaissance Faire regulars with way too much time and money on their hands, so the quiet was unnerving to this day. That much armor and weaponry shouldn’t go down without a sound.

She remembers that day being overcast but still bright, so she was able to see it very clearly when her friend went down. He didn’t topple like his strings were cut, his eyes didn’t roll back into his head, and he didn’t crumple. He stood there for a while, staring down the creature who had just taken a large chunk out of something vital and he thrust his greatsword forward one last time and took that asshole with him. And then he turned to his friends and sat, slowly, so he could slide his way all the way down and turned a mouth full of bloody teeth, bared in a pleased grin, and then he was gone. The light gone from his eyes just like that. That’s the part she remembered most. The way his eyes, always so full of the will to make mischief and the palpable need to protect his friends, just suddenly gone. He was just a body then. No longer the man she had fought and bled with for so long.

What came after that-the rage and the denial and the necromancy-that’s another story for another day. It wasn’t the return of life that haunted her, it was the snuffed out candle and the moment of absolute helplessness to do anything. She knew her strengths and bringing back the dead was not in her wheelhouse. The elements were hers to do with as she pleased, but the forces of life and death were another beast altogether. That moment, her friend nothing but a husk on the floor, haunted her. Most days she could remember that he hadn’t stayed an empty thing for very long. Most days she was a force of positive thinking and action and bludgeoned her dour guild mates with gleeful shows of love and friendship. Today was a day to remember. Today was a day for the past to reach into the future and throw shadows on her soul. And that was okay. Sometimes you needed to remember the darkness to make the light shine brighter.


	2. “What’s a little arson between friends?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vilinte is a soul born of fire and her friends really should remember not to leave her unattended around their stuff. Poor Eckoe. This is not an isolated incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eckoe is human but touched by death and Vil is Sylvari

Vil was a fan of fire. She loved the way it moved, the way it consumed. She adored the way it felt, the heat of it, the way nothing could stand in its path for long. What she loved most about fire was that even after it ravaged the land or the body, new growth and life sprang from it’s path. It was a force of great destruction, but it was also necessary for life. It was complicated but also very simple, and she loved that most of all because she could relate. The other elements were fun but she would always favor the flame above all others. She was born in a dream that allowed her to dance with the flickering elementals and oh how she danced. For days on end she would prance and play with the firebirds, forever burning, forever being born anew. She would spend nights crackling merrily in campfires with lazy salamanders and days learning to breathe fire from a wise old dragon who found her love of fire an endearing quality. She lived and blazed with light and life and she missed those days fiercely. She wouldn’t trade her friends and family for anything, not even those days, but if anything came close to tempting her from her life it was the thought of those days in the dreaming.

That being said she wished in this moment very deeply to be back in the dream of her youth. Disappointed eyes glowed under an obscuring hood and she had scarce felt anything so heavy in her life, and she had felt the weight of a world trying to end settle on her, admittedly very small, shoulders. She could just make out the normally jovial mouth turned down in a judgmental frown. Eckoe struck an intimidating figure, that was for sure. An unnaturally shadowed face with glowing eyes should be a fearsome sight but usually it was outshone by the grin he habitually wore and the easy set of his shoulders and spine. He was a man who found it easy to laugh, usually when he shouldn’t, and almost always with friends. It was hard, when you knew him for any length of time, to look at Eckoe and see someone to be feared. It was in moments like this that Vil remembered her friend could be stern and foreboding if the occasion called for it. She wasn’t sure what he was expecting though, he knew her so well and still he invited her into his very flammable home in his equally flammable neighborhood. It’s not like this was a new aspect of their friendship, and it wasn’t like she did it on purpose. Usually. 

Eckoe was still staring her down as his home burned cheerfully in the background. Vil’s shoulders hunched with a shred of remorse. “You can do better than that hovel anyways…?” She tried hesitantly, knowing it was probably a mistake. Somehow the glowing eyes grew even more judgemental. “Okay, how are you doing that, I’ve always wondered?”

“Vil. My house. I just finished paying it off.” His voice sounded choked and had an odd quality to it that she couldn’t place. Was it anger? It was hard to say for sure.

“What’s a little arson between friends?” And that’s when he finally lost it. He bent double on a full belly laugh that couldn’t be contained. She just stared at him for a few seconds and then her own shoulders started to shake. She wasn’t sure exactly what he found so funny about the situation, but she wasn’t about to let him laugh by himself, that just wouldn’t do. The Ragged fought and lived and definitely laughed together.


	3. “It’s beautiful.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The temple stood tall and somber upon the land, a reminder for any who saw it of the patron worshiped within.

The temple stood tall and somber upon the land, a reminder for any who saw it of the patron worshiped within. It was a quiet place, as was only right. Few tread these paths or the halls within, for the god housed here was not one called upon lightly. It has been this way since the very beginning, for there are few who would devote themselves so fully, or even lightly, to such a god. Death is something all fear, even other gods. 

There was movement within these hallowed halls, however, because some few found in themselves the calling to serve such a deity. The whispered words, spoken with such reverence, belonged to one such devotee. It hadn’t always been that way for Leilannia. Once a devout worshipper of a different god altogether, it wasn’t until she herself had died and fell into the hands of death himself that she found her calling. Before her passing she had been a faithful follower of the goddess of justice, and she still held in her heart a special place for her. But dying and then coming back had changed her irrevocably, and her goddess understood that mortals bend and change all their lives. She wished her well with her new patron and that, as they say, was that.

Stepping up to the large, ornately carved dark wood doors of the temple Leilannia paused a moment in reverence, and her companion waited a respectful distance away. Bard was good like that-and he certainly had respect for a god of death, being what he was. It was hard to tell without knowing just what manner of being Bard was, but Leilannia had always been able to tell. A fairly slender man, with pale hair and skin, refined features one might describe as aristocratic, there was very little to truly give away his nature. Unless you paid close attention to his eyes, which were also pale, but also seemed to contain an unnatural sort of light; ghost-light one might call it. And they’d certainly be right. Count Bard had been dead for a very long time before even meeting Leilannia. So he understood very well, the reverence with which his friend stood before the temple of her god, a god he understood all too well. He wasn’t what you would call a devotee, but he knew death like an old friend, mostly because they were friends of sorts. You can’t be dead as long as Bard and not become intimately acquainted with the god of death. It would be terribly rude for one thing, and nigh impossible to avoid him for another. 

After a few long moments to just breathe, and appreciate the beauty of the temple door Leilannia pushed forwards and finally entered her Lord’s domain. Immediately upon entering there was a noticeable shift in temperature. It wasn’t necessarily cold within these walls, but it was certainly cold _er_ , which was expected in such a place, but few realized that it was not because the god housed within these walls was a god of death. It was because he was also a god of winter. The two went hand in hand, but most forgot in the face of their own mortality. It was okay, they could be forgiven for their oversight, or so her god had told her. _It was in the nature of mortals to be forgetful, _he would say,_ because their lives are fleeting and ever changing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard is a ghost of Ascalon who was dead long enough to become self aware and one day decided to wander off and see the world. Leilannia was a human warrior who worshiped Kormir in life and was brought back as a Guardian by Grenth.


	4. "Take my hand."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes death isn't the end, sometimes it's a beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is Leilannia's death and Grenth reaching out to her and thus the major character death warning is for this particular drabble

“Take my hand.” 

It is dark. The air is humid and thick, like the air before a storm. It is hard to breathe. It is hard to do much of anything, even to think. The voice speaks as if from a great distance.

“Take my hand.”

There’s an echoey quality to the voice, like they’re in a tunnel or cave. She cannot remember being in such a place, but at the moment she cannot remember a great deal, so she doesn’t worry about it too much. She doesn’t do a lot of things. She doesn’t listen to the voice, not out of any sort of willful rejection, but because she doesn’t know how. She cannot seem to feel much of anything, including her arm. There’s a numbness to her body and a fogginess in her mind and she can do nothing but exist. Sometimes existing is all that you can do.

“Take my hand.”

The voice is so insistent. She tries to focus but it’s futile, she cannot seem to do anything but think. So that is what she does. She thinks about the voice. It is of a lower register, so perhaps it is a man’s voice. There is a sense of quiet determination in the sound, and a softness that she thinks is kindness. It is hard for her to be sure of anything at the moment. It is a voice that she does not recognize but she thinks she should listen to it anyways. There’s another sound she can hear, something is ...dripping, she thinks. 

“Take my hand.”

The voice repeats itself but the intonation is slightly different this time. There is almost a pleading quality to it that wasn’t present before. She thinks that is probably not good. For a moment she just breathes, an automatic action that takes no thought, no real will, until it does. For a moment her lungs stall and it takes her longer than it probably should to notice. It is most definitely a bad sign. She focuses on that feeling, of her lungs expanding and contracting, to work to get them started again and she ...fails. Her lungs do nothing and it’s then that the first real emotion crawls from wherever it was hiding within her to gasp desperately in her still throat. This is fear, she thinks. She doesn’t remember this feeling, like she thinks she probably should, but there is no mistaking it. She feels her heartbeat, previously unnoticed, speed up. The oxygen in her blood running thin as her lungs slowly starve. 

“Take my hand.”

The world was already dark, but somehow her vision seems to tunnel. She’s not sure how that works, or even if it should be possible. It just is. She cannot even truly struggle against her fate and that is what scares her most of all. She isn’t sure why. The voice has grown louder, she thinks, but it is hard to tell. There is the sound of her heart beating and her blood pounding in her head very loudly now. It drowns out the voice, and the quiet dripping noise.

“Take my hand.”

The desperate drumming in her head and chest come to a crescendo and then abruptly there is silence. It is like the whole world suddenly comes to a stop. She can no longer feel her body. She isn’t sure it’s even there any more. She does still feel the fear. Is this the end? Is this what death is, this nothingness? This void?

“Take my hand.”

Suddenly she realizes that she can move. She has no body and she cannot feel anything and yet she’s absolutely sure that she can move. So she does. She reaches a hand out blindly and hopes whoever it is that has been commanding her, pleading with her, is there still. She is suddenly aware of her hand. It is a strange sensation, given she is fairly sure she does not have one anymore. But still she reaches and finally grasps what is in front of her.

“Take my hand.”

Her hand meets another. She thinks it is large, though she has no real concept of size anymore, but compared to her own it is massive. It is also the warmest thing she thinks she has ever held. It is a strange concept, because it is _warm_ and not _hot,_ yet somehow it is the _warmest_ thing she has ever experienced. It is not a soft hand, it is firm and rather thin for its large size. It grasps her own with strength but also somehow feels kind in its embrace. Slowly it begins to pull and she realizes maybe she does have some sort of body, because it certainly feels like she is being pulled _up_ from a prone position. She does not feel a floor. She does not think she was laying on anything physical, and yet she is still absolutely sure she is being pulled upwards. She would say it was the weirdest thing she has ever experienced but she doesn’t know how exactly it ranks in comparison to the rest of this experience. She will withhold judgement for now.

“Rise with me.”

The voice is closer now, louder. Another hand reaches out to grasp what she thinks is her shoulder. She is helpless to do anything but comply, and so she rises. She stands upon feet that should not exist and she is tugged forwards and up an incline. 

“You may look upon me.”

She did not open her eyes because she did not know she still had them. She does so now and she is met with darkness once again, but there is something more. There is a figure standing in front of and to the side of her, tugging her along. It is a man, she thinks. It is hard to say for sure because he is wearing a mask. She has to tilt her head up to see him and he is as massive as his hand implied. She feels like a child next to him. She thinks she may be more right than she can comprehend in that moment. This is a man, but he is also, she is certain now, not a mortal man. The mask he wears is avian in nature, though she cannot place what kind of bird it is. It looks predatory, that she can say for sure, and the tilt of the eyes make it look like it is smiling, like it knows something she does not and it is almost unnerving. She thinks if she could not feel the warmth radiating from this being then she would certainly be terrified of him. It is just ...he is so radiant. Not in any way that gives off light, but it is the only word she can find that describes the sense she gets from him. At the same time there is warmth there is also a coldness. This is more a physical coldness, not metaphysical like she thinks the warmth is. It’s a strange contrast but she thinks it is fitting, now that she is thinking about what this man could possibly be.

“Do not let go.”

She does not. She thinks if she were to let go she would stop altogether. She would stop moving, she would stop feeling, would stop being. Because she thinks she knows who this is now. Not a name, that’s still beyond her right now but _what_ he is, that is something she is almost sure of now. This man is Death, he is the last gasp as you leave the world, the coldness of winter’s grasp. But he is also so warm in a way she never expected death would be. So very welcoming. She thinks that she is okay with this. If this is who guides her into the afterlife or wherever it is he is taking her, she is at peace with it. There are much worse fates than being guided by a kind hand to your fate. 

“You still have much to do.”

This is the first thing that gives her pause. She is dead, she thinks, what more is there for her to do? But he seems very sure of this statement and who is she to question him. So she continues to be tugged along like a leaf on a river’s surface, she could sink at any moment but the water keeps her floating just a while more. She has no sense of time anymore. It could be minutes or days, maybe years, that she follows behind him in this dark place, the only thing visible the both of them. She does not ever tire in this place, there is no more need for sleep or rest. She wonders if the dead dream, but if they do she hasn’t had a chance to yet. 

“You belonged to my sister for so long.”

She does not remember who his sister might be, besides perhaps another god. She does not remember belonging to anyone, but if he says it all she can do is believe him. She does not think he is a liar, though she does not remember how she knows this so surely. But death does not lie. She is sure of this fact. 

“You lived for Justice and served so very faithfully in life.”

It’s like his words are a chip in a floodgate, letting a small trickle of memory through. She suddenly remembers what it is he is talking about. His sister, the goddess of Justice. Her name is Kormir and she was the goddess to whom she had devoted her life. Because Justice is a worthy cause for such devotion. She had lived her life seeking out those who would see justice corrupted or blocked and she put things to rights. It was a hard life, but worthwhile. She thinks she must have died in Kormir’s name and she thinks she is still at peace with this. To live and die for her ideals and belief, it is not such a bad way to go.

“I have been waiting, and hoping, that in death you might serve me just as well.”

She did not know what to do with that statement. It was said with a sense of hopefulness that was strange coming from this man. This being who held her hand so firmly in his, who had pulled her from the ground and was even now leading her forward into the unknown. She thinks that maybe it would not be so terrible, to serve someone like this. He seems a kind sort of god, even though she knows death is rarely a kind thing. But the fact that he came personally to walk her through this journey speaks volumes. She wonders if he does this for all those who pass through his domain or if he is here because he wants something from her. She does not know that it really matters. He is here and he is asking something of her that she is not sure she can give.

“I know that you believe in Justice, and that death does not always come to those who deserve it.”

Death is something that comes for all, everyone is equal in his eyes. But she knows that he is not the one who decides who lives and who dies. He is only the one who comes to show the way after a soul passes from the world. She thinks this is not a bad thing, it might even be a worthwhile thing, to serve this man. But she does not know what her service would entail, what sorts of things he would ask her to do. She will not do anything that conflicts with her beliefs. She lived her life by them and she will not give them up, even in death. 

“Death comes for all, eventually, but there are those who would twist it to their will and pervert it.”

She has heard of such things, often she has fought against these people. They were on the wrong side of Justice and she understands the need for balance. If this is what he wants from her she thinks she could be persuaded to serve him. So long as he remembers that she belonged to Justice first.

“I would see them Judged for their actions and I believe you are the only one I can entrust such a duty.”

She stares ahead into the dark nothingness around them. She cannot tell if it is so dark here that she cannot see it or if it truly goes on into eternity. She thinks about her life and her death and if swearing herself in death to another god is truly something she wants. She does not have to think for very long on it, she has never been one to hesitate overlong over a decision. Her voice, when she manages to find it hiding somewhere within her, is firm with resolve.

“I will serve you in death as I served your sister in life.”

And though he wears a mask with no discernible mouth she can tell that Death is smiling at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is honestly one of my favorite things I've written


	5. A man of science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keldalin was a man of science ...Well, sort of a man. Well, not really a man so much as a gnome. A gnome of science.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so Keldalin is my Asuran Engineer-a holosmith to be specific. He's a good little goblin man and this is also set in my Urban Fantasy AU so I decided that Asurans would sort of translate to a reimagined sort of gnome. I hope it makes sense. Let me know what you guys think about the choice!  
> Macha an Anfa is a Norn and she's the leader of The Ragged Edge. (pronounced MAH-Kha ahn AHN-fa) She's technically a Necromancer.

Keldalin was a man of science ...Well, sort of a man. Well, not really a man so much as a gnome. A gnome of science. As such he found himself frequenting the Crimson Raven, which was a book shop/cafe that catered to all sorts of people, gnomes of science included. Owned by the Giantess who ran his Guild, Kel was always welcome within its walls, even when he became an annoyance to those within. Which happened frequently, as it happens. It wasn’t his problem that people got annoyed when he started talking about scientific theory, or magical theory, or asking questions about said theories. Really, it was their own fault for coming to such a shop and expecting quiet. It wasn’t a library for the Forge’s sake, he wasn’t obliged to hold his tongue, not when there were things to be learned or people to educate. 

Contrary to popular belief gnomes did not just look like little men. In fact they didn’t look very much like men at all. Standing at 3’4” Kel was about average height with purplish grey skin with the texture of old leather. He had short, coarse green hair with interesting patterns shaved around the base of his thin neck. His mouth was thin but long and full of shark-like teeth, though only one row, as opposed to a shark’s many rows. His eyes were large and purple with startlingly bright yellow pupils, that were round like a humans and not slit, like one might expect of something so inhuman. He had strangely human brows with a large crisscrossing of scars across his fairly flat, almost feline looking nose. His limbs were thicker than most and both his hands and feet had three fingers and toes respectively, that ended in sharp claws that looked like they were probably meant for burrowing in the earth. All-in-all, if you weren’t used to looking at anyone nonhuman then he made for an unsettling sight. As for the people who frequented the Crimson Raven? He was merely a fond annoyance, like an excited nephew come to tell you about his newest school project.

Entering the book shop he was so fond of Kel ignored the little bell that signaled the door opening and immediately made a beeline for the desk that served the book half of the shop. It looked like the owner herself was manning the register there, Lythuin must have been busy with his studies, the flower-brained cretin. Standing a little over 8 feet tall with a solid, muscular build, and long red hair, shaved on one side,with blue Celtic facial tattoos, Macha An Anfa was a sight to behold to most people. But she was actually fairly short for a Giantess, though that’s not ever something to be said to her face, she could still punch someone through a concrete wall when angered. Keldalin did his best not to anger Macha because she was his source for interesting books. 

Macha was holding a cup of tea and flipping through a magazine, Necromancy Monthly, if Kel had to make a guess. Macha was a strange sort, technically what she did was considered a branch of Necromancy but she detested those who used what was considered traditional Necromancy. Her gods, apparently, were not a fan. It was an interesting quirk of their leader, especially given what she had done to Eckoe, but that wasn’t something even Kel liked to think about too deeply. That was a day everyone in the Guild, even those members who hadn’t been part of the group at that point, tread carefully around.

Kel had come in today because Macha had let him know she had acquired the book he had been looking for for months. Finally he could get on with his research! There was little more that excited Kel than research and he had been stalled out on this particular project for months. Trying to work with light was a tricky business, Technically what Kel considered science was half science and half magic, but he didn’t like dividing the two into such different categories. Magic was science, even if science wasn’t magic. Magic had rules and you could experiment with it and repeat said experiments to the same result. Just because you didn’t always know why it worked didn’t mean there wasn’t scientific reason behind it. It’s just that nobody had done enough research yet.

**Author's Note:**

> any comments are appreciated as well as any questions


End file.
